


With You, With Me

by JackEPeace



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Fitz doesn't actually make an appearance, Masturbation, also smut, but still, there are references to their Framework 'relationship'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 12:36:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10876923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackEPeace/pseuds/JackEPeace
Summary: The Russian had given her an idea.(AKA shameless smut where Aida learns how to make herself feel good in her newly human body)





	With You, With Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plinys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/gifts).



> I'm normally not much a smut writer (and you might read this and think 'oh I can see why!') but I couldn't not write this for the dear and talented Jess who really wanted a fic where Aida learns to masturbate because what former murder-robot wouldn't want to learn those things upon being human?! So here you got! Smut and...you know...smut. 
> 
> Title from "Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings" by Father John Misty which is really my theme song for this story so...just saying.

The Russian had given her an idea.

 _I can…make you feel something else_.

And he had, oh yes he had. He had made her feel someone else's breath, hot and sour in her mouth. A tongue that tasted like vodka. A kiss that was too rough, too scratchy, too wrong. He had made her feel the sensation of her nails in his flesh, her fingers in his hair. She'd never been able to hurt someone before and the irony isn't lost on her. In her previous body, it would have been easy to hurt, to kill, to destroy. In this new human body, she feels everything and her muscles burn from it, from the sensation of hitting and hurting hard enough to kill. He hadn't been human so maybe it didn't count. But she'd felt it, that something else, a power inside her to rip and tear and destroy when all she'd wanted was sun and sea and salt and creating something new.

 _I can make you feel something else_.

Of course she'd known what he meant. She'd understood that look in his eyes, predatory and powerful, underestimating who was the one who really had the power. He'd looked at her the way she'd seen men look at women on the streets -both in this reality and the Framework- like they were the wolf in the henhouse, like a suggestion was just a formality. Like they already knew the ending.

She wanted it, that thing he was suggesting. But not from him.

But even still…The Russian had given her an idea.

And now she sits, alone, hyper aware. She's back at the place she'd made, that she'd so carefully and thoughtfully put together for him…for them. How stupid she'd been. _We can decorate it together_. Idiot. Fool.

She looks at the bed behind her, envious and angry. She'd thought…of course she'd thought. She'd thought that Fitz would remember her here, that he would love her the way that he'd loved her there and that everything would be the same and nothing would be. That they'd go to that bed together, that he would kiss her and she would feel it. That he would touch her and she would feel it. That his hands would move across her body and she'd feel that too, she'd feel all of it: his hands moving slow, pushing aside her underwear, reaching down and-

She's surprised by the sudden sensation spreading through her body: heat in her cheeks, pooling low in her stomach and further down, to the place where Fitz had touched her in the Framework, where she'd had to pretend and imagine.

But now. Now she can feel. She can feel something else. A throbbing, impatient, persistent.

Intriguing.

She thinks of Fitz again and how it might have felt to have him touch her and that heat is back, that flash, as fleeting as a falling star, promising what could have been if only he'd stayed, if only she'd _made_ him stay, shown him what could be…how it _could_ be…

 _I can make you feel something else_. How cocky he'd been, how arrogant. If someone so brutish and disposable could even think for a second that he could make her feel anything…then why would she need him at all? She is more than capable.

Her hand is tremulous, uncertain, as she lets it slip, feather soft, across her chest and lower. The thrill of it, the newness, it has her heart hammering in her chest and she tries to imagine how it had been with him in the Framework, what he had done when he'd thought she could feel him.

Now she doesn't need him, she thinks.

There is so much she wants to feel, so much she wants to do. Why should she deny herself even a second of it?

She presses her fingers to the fabric of her dress, the part that hangs in front of the space between her legs, that inviting curiosity. The thrill is back and the pressure seems to click something together in her mind, urging her on, assuring her that this is the right thing to do.

Not that she needs any convincing.

She settles herself on the couch. Her heart is still beating hard, fast -she's still getting used to it, trying to figure out what each beat means. She'd thought that this -quick and fast- was for fear but…this is something else. She's not afraid, she's only…ready. Impatient. And the beating of her heart, the pooling in her stomach, the throbbing between her legs, it all just urges her on.

Her hands are warm against the inside of her thighs, her skin soft, her fingers long and slender. There are bones underneath, frail and delicate, but she doesn't feel at all delicate as she lets her fingers brush against her thighs, moving upward, pushing aside her dress.

She thinks of those moments in the Framework, when he had touched her. He'd never been like the Russian, predatory and cocksure. His eyes had been gentle, softening around her only. He'd touched her, always asking, always checking that it was okay. She'd urged him on because she'd known that she was supposed to. If she'd been able to feel it, she figures she would have urged him on all the more.

Her body moves on its own accord, hips shifting, impatient and searching. She wants contact, _needs_ it, needs to press her fingers to the spot that's aching suddenly, beating in time with her heart.

She does. The relief is momentary and the touch only makes her want even more, only makes her more desperate.

There's a dampness there against the fabric of her underwear and she presses her fingers to the fabric again, curious, prodding. Her body reacts, her heart races and still she wants more.

She pushes her underwear down her legs, kicking them aside. Her fingers move back quickly, desperate, curious.

A gasp, involuntary, escapes her lips when her fingers brush against her clit and she presses again, testing the sensation, seeking that thrill, that jolt. Instinctively, she strokes her finger up and down and that, oh yes, that. That's what she needs. She closes her eyes, dips her head back and she can feel the prickling heat in her cheeks, the dryness in her mouth.

Slowly, she moves her finger, stroking, circling and every second it feels better, more sensitive, wet against her finger. At first the sound that slips from her legs surprises her, embarrasses her. But why? Why should she be embarrassed of the way it feels to touch herself, to stroke, to curl her finger?

Her breathing comes quicker as she quickens her own pace, circling and stroking faster, her hips lifting off the couch, impatient for more, desperate. She thinks of her own fingers and what she must look like now: her dress rucked up to her hips, her hair loose and wild behind her as she tips her head back. She thinks of the flush to her cheeks, the sounds that come from the back of her throat. Her body gives an involuntary spasm, somewhere from inside.

And she thinks of him, hovering over her in bed, looking into her eyes, slowly pushing inside her. The pressure she'd felt, almost as an afterthought, a discomfort to adjust to. Her body had felt it, this sort of invader; she'd longed to feel it now, human and ready.

Slowly, she slips a finger inside and the sound…it's not a gasp, it's a moan, low and throaty and she likes it, she likes the sound of herself. She likes the feeling of pressure, the way her hips shift, the way her body seems to move on its own, desperate and encouraging.

With her thumb she continues to rub against her clit, her actions awkward and uncertain now that she's got a finger inside and she's wet and it messes with her rhythm. She gasps, she moans, squeezing her eyes closed as she slides in another finger and she curls them upward, thrusting inside, deeper.

Her free hand is clinched tightly around the cushion of the couch, her knuckles white. Her eyes are closed and she sees him but only absently, as though he's not entirely connected to her thoughts or her actions. Mostly she just feels. She feels the throbbing, painful and desperate, in her clit, the electric way that every brush seems to lurch up to her stomach, making her flutter and jump. She feels the press of her bare feet into the cushions of the couch, the cushions against the bare skin uncovered by her dress, messy and tangled. She feels the pressure of her fingers inside, touching, curling, thrusting and sliding out and then thrusting again, harder each time and deeper. She feels the lift of her hips, meeting her fingers with each thrust.

Her muscles squeeze against her fingers, a flutter, a sudden surge of pleasure. She gasps, pants, groans. She moves her fingers faster, harder, letting her body take control. She'd wanted to feel, she'd been desperate for it. And now…now she feels.

There's another flutter, another squeeze, another lurch of pleasure that spreads through the bottom of her stomach and between her legs and she moves her thumb in rapid, uneven, messy circles.

And suddenly it's like someone turns off the switch in her mind, the bulb blowing in a flash of light. She squeezes her eyes shut so hard that she sees stars and she cries out, the sound slipping past her lips before it even becomes a conscious thought. She thrusts her fingers in one final time and her walls tighten, squeezing against her fingers, seeking traction, contact, pressure. Her toes curl, her hips lift and her mind is empty, blessedly blank, her body awash with a wave of warmth and relief.

It fades away slowly, disappointingly. She pushes inside again, swirls her thumb experimentally but it doesn't feel like it used to, it's sensitive and it aches and not in the way it did before. Slowly she pulls her fingers free, damp and shaking.

Scientifically, she understands it, she knows the word for it: orgasm. She'd seen Fitz's face in those moments, done the research to know what she was supposed to do, how to make him feel good about what they'd done. But that…to feel it…to experience it…Instantly she craves the sensation again, desperate not only for the peak but also the moments leading up to it, the teasing, the buildup, the anticipating. And the release, the moment of empty weightlessness. She wants it. She wants to feel it all again.

Her body feels more relaxed, some of the rage and sorrow and hurt leached out of her muscles, at least temporarily. It's one hell of a cure, she thinks. People really should do that more often. She likes this boneless feeling, the stickiness between her legs and on her fingers, the lazy thudding of her heart, the heat on her skin.

She smiles, lazy and sardonic, closing her eyes and letting her head flop back against the armrest of the couch.

 _I can make you feel something else_. Well, if only he could see her now. If only they both could.

She doesn't need him after all.


End file.
